Nothing Short of Dying (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

M
oving toward the gate, I felt myself slip back into the comfortable role of hunter. The careful placement of feet, nose to the air, bow in hand, ears straining against the wind for the slightest sounds—all of it reminded me of what had kept me going all those years in the jungle and the desert, despite the horrors that resulted.

The tree line ended thirty yards from the fence. I stopped at a tree on the edge of the gap and listened. No sounds of alarm. Just the wind in the trees. Nothing to worry about.

I eased out into the gap between the trees and the fence, using the tree's moon shadows as cover. Here I'd have to go slow, careful of every step and sound. I took one step, listened, then another.

And almost fell into a pit.

I caught myself and fell back, landing hard on my ass, then waited until my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light to see what I'd almost fallen into.

The pit was maybe ten feet deep, twenty feet wide, and seventy-five feet long. Half-filled with propane tanks, Coleman fuel tins, boxes full of used matchsticks, rubbing alcohol
bottles, broken glass, black trash bags, and what looked like salt. Lots and lots of salt. At first I thought it was the world's weirdest punji trap, until I realized it was their trash dump. Of course they wouldn't want the refuse in the compound, and burying it in the mountains made a lot more sense than having it trucked out to a landfill.

I carefully crawled around the hole, staying low and quiet, until I reached the chain link and was rewarded with a small, person-size gate that they must have put in for dump access. It saved them having to walk around the compound to throw away all the crap it takes to make poison.

The small gate was locked with a hefty chunk of chain and an American lock. A brand that was notoriously hard to pick. I was distracted, thinking about the lock, and also thinking that if Jen were in the compound I'd have to hurry and get her before Alvis got back. He probably had a few gunmen with him. It was that moment of distraction that almost ruined me.

I was reaching into my back pocket for my lock tools when the guard patrolling the back fence drifted into view. He turned my way and started walking along the fence, running his hand along the chain link. Just to hear the sound and for something to do, I guessed. It was enough to cover the sound of my stepping back away from the gate into a darker shadow.

I had been visualizing pins and tumblers and hadn't heard or seen the man as he appeared from behind the nearest trailer to my left. In front of me, just on the other side of the fence, was the green trailer, with the light on, and hopefully Jen.

But I wouldn't be able to just run in and get her, if I wanted to make it back to the horses alive. I'd have to take
out all of the guards before Lance returned. And the one coming right at me had to be dealt with first.

He was twenty yards away. I eased my hand away from the pick set and grabbed an arrow.

Ten yards away. The man turned on a flashlight, waving its yellow beam in front of him and occasionally through the fence. The flashlight was a good sign. It meant there weren't security lights and that there was probably no outside power to the compound. Made sense. Lance couldn't be on the grid. He'd use generators to power whatever he needed. And I didn't hear any generators. Another good thing.

Bad thing was that the guard was now five yards away from the gate and was shining the light closer and closer to the thin shadow where I hid. This was my only chance. Any closer and he'd sound an alarm. There was a small opening to the left of the gate. If I could release the arrow perfectly, the arrow's tip wouldn't bounce off the chain link. I nocked the arrow, lifted the bow, sighted down the shaft, aimed for the man's chest, and . . . let go.

And missed.

The arrow shanked to the right and bounced off the fence. Confused, the man pivoted and jabbed the flashlight beam through the fence. It wavered and wobbled wildly, until it finally found me.

I let the next arrow go, and this time it hit its mark.

Sort of. Instead of piercing the man's chest, it flew through his throat, and he fell to his knees, clutching at the new hole in his windpipe. I ran to the gate and fumbled for my tools with shaking hands.

As I adjusted the tension wrench and started feeling and counting pins, I heard the door to the green trailer creak open. I saw a man dressed in Tyvek lab coveralls with a res
pirator hanging around his neck. He stepped into the dark, his eyes not yet adjusted. In a few seconds they would, and he'd see the dead man sprawled on the ground.

There was a brief moment when I thought about the bow, but I stopped when I saw that the man was unarmed. So I cupped my hands, turned my head toward the trees, and let loose with my best imitation of a coyote warning howl. The whoa-yip-bark-bark had the desired effect. The man hustled off toward some hole in the compound without taking in his surroundings, disturbed by the presence of another predator.

I listened hard, knowing that the call might have attracted attention, but after a few achingly long minutes, when no one else appeared, I went back to the lock.

And ten minutes later I had it open. At first the damned thing false set on me, and I had to microadjust individual pins, which isn't easy when your hands are shaking and your heart is pounding. I wondered if ER surgeons felt the same thing. Eventually it popped open with a satisfying click, and I unwound the chain and slipped through the gate.

One down. Which still left three. And I wasn't sure if they'd changed up their patrols since I started down the hill. No way to find out since I couldn't contact Zeke. I'd just have to wing it. As usual. I patted down the dead man's body and found a mike on his lapel, an earpiece in his ear, and a radio on his hip. I quickly ripped them off, shoved the radio and mike in my pocket, and screwed the earpiece into my ear. No radio traffic, which was good.

I dragged the body under the green trailer, kicked dirt over the blood, and readied my bow. Then I slid from shadow to shadow, easing my feet softly onto the hard-packed dirt. I worked my way along the backside of the Quonset, where I'd seen one of the men enter.

I squatted in a tire rut, readied the bow, and slapped the tin siding as hard as I could. The metal rang, hollow and loud, vibrating along the backside. My new radio crackled.

A steady, rough voice was saying, “Central, this is Parker. Status: Burke is not responding at the Alvis trailer. Request that you send Spencer over there to query. I'm beginning an investigation of noise on the north side of warehouse.”

A female voice, sounding far away and lost in static, said, “Central to Burke, status.” Then a few moments later, “Central to Burke, status.”

The female voice waited another couple of seconds, said, “Ten-four, Parker. Spencer en route. Burke is still ten-seven. Proceed with caution.”

You could hear a faint laugh when Parker responded, “Ten-four. Parker clear.”

He was still laughing when he rounded the corner, shaking his watch-cap-covered head, probably thinking that no threat in these mountains could compare to what he'd previously gone up against. He stopped laughing when he almost ran right into the razor-sharp end of the broadhead that I had ready and waiting. I'd moved to a corner, listened for steps, and hearing none moved to the other and readied an arrow.

“Put the light down,” I whispered. He shut it off and slowly bent toward the ground.

“No. Drop it.”

He did. “On your knees,” I said, waving the bow. My arms were starting to shake, the result of holding back sixty pounds of tension. “Hands behind your head.”

He did it, reluctantly, looking up at me with a smart defiance that scared me. The man had a lethal edge to him and I should have put the arrow in his throat when he first arrived. Giving people the benefit of the doubt can get you killed.

My arm shook too bad to keep holding the bow drawn, so I relaxed the string and motioned to Parker's hands.

As he moved his hands up, I saw the shift of weight on his knees and knew what was coming. I pulled back the bowstring again and kicked out hard, trying to connect a heel to his jaw.

But he'd shifted the other way and jumped to his feet and out of range, leaving me with a leg up and off balance.

Which he used to his advantage as he rushed in, one hand on my leg, shoving it away, and the other hand reaching for his sidearm.

I knew if he got the pistol out, either I'd be dead or the game would be over. One shot and the place would look like a kicked anthill. Central would radio for backup. Zeke might be able to take a few out, but I'd never leave with Jen. So I shot the arrow, which flew up and over the guard, whistling into the dark. Then I reversed my grip on the bow and threw the bowstring over his head as I fell.

The hard cord caught the man in the eyes and pulled him down next to me. I shoved my shoulders forward, jerked the bow down, and pulled the string tight against his neck. Using my knee for leverage, I yanked the bow toward me with all the strength my shaking arms had left until I heard the wood crack.

The guard struggled for a few moments, unable to get his pistol out of his holster and unable to hit me, and then lay still. I caught my breath, shoved the broken bow away, and pulled myself up. I checked the man's pulse. His heart was still beating, slow and steady. He wasn't dead, but he'd definitely be out of it for a while. I listened to the sounds in the compound. Nothing out of the ordinary. Only a faint crackle from my earpiece.

“Central to Spencer and Flint. Be advised, silent alarm sent from Parker. Please follow protocol and secure the asset.”

A new gravelly voice said, “Central, Flint. Currently at gate. Will remain as per procedure until situation demands otherwise.” Then a hard-breathing voice: “Central, Spencer. Ten-four, on my way.”

The race was on. Jen's trailer was the finish line, and my sister was the prize.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I
couldn't just take off across the compound, full speed, without attracting the attention of the guy at the front gate. So I unslung my pack, crammed my hat in it, and replaced it with the guard's watch cap. I took his tactical vest and his rifle, too, hoping I'd be seen as Spencer if the fourth guard were to get in my way.

Then I took off running along the west-side trailers, the pack and rifle banging against my back and side. Soon the small glow of the green trailer became visible. I aimed toward it, my heart about to jump out of my ribs, my lungs aching, my legs jelly. I didn't think I'd be able to keep it up, until I saw Spencer run out from the east and cut in front of me.

I wasn't going to beat him. He was fifteen yards ahead and had perfect runner's form, arms reaching high, knees pumping. My first impulse was to stop and use the rifle, but I knew I couldn't if I was going to get Jen out. And I was so close now.

So I pushed harder, and when I'd closed the gap to twelve yards, I slowed and grabbed the first baseball-size rock I saw. Without completely stopping, I hopped and whanged the rock at the sprinter in front of me. And prayed.

As a kid, I never played catch with my father. Never played
baseball with friends. Never even watched a game, because it was boring. Nothing like boxing. But I'd spent countless hours whipping rocks at animals for food, or at holes and trees for fun. It was like a more primitive version of darts. You spend enough time doing it, and your body remembers the motions.

Everything seemed to slow as I watched the rock sail straight and true through the starlight. As Spencer turned toward the trailer the rock caught him on the base of the skull. There was a meaty smack and he fell forward, skidding in the dirt.

I ran to him, kicked him quick in the temple, and flew to the door.

I threw it open, pulled the pistol, and swung the sights in arcs, searching for more guards. There weren't any. The room was empty.

I closed the door quietly and took a closer look at the room. A small battery-operated Coleman lantern sat on an aluminum table, casting a yellow glow on the industrial carpet and freshly painted white walls. A half-played game of solitaire was laid out by the lamp. A camp chair sat on one side of the table, and resting against it was a Remington shotgun, black, with a flashlight attached to the barrel. Extra MP5 magazines were stacked neatly in a box beside the Remington.

No sign of Jen. Across from the camp chair, on the other side of the room, was a brand-new shiny black couch. I could smell the crisp leather from where I stood. A wool blanket was folded neatly at one end of the couch, but that was the only other thing in the room. There was, however, a door on the east side, hard to see because the paint matched the walls. If Jen was here, maybe she'd be on the other side.

Or maybe there'd be someone else.

I tried the door, found it locked—
of course
—and took a step back. It was time to find out what lay behind door number one. I jumped forward and stomped the flat of my boot against the door, near the jam. I imagined a point five feet on the other side of the door and tried to kick to it.

The door splintered but held. It took me one more try to bust through, and when I did, the door swung open so fast I nearly sprawled on the lush carpet.

Lush. The word didn't fit the place. But it was lush nonetheless. So was everything in the room, I found, once my eyes adjusted again and the light from the Coleman filtered in. The place looked like a posh hotel room: empty king-size bed with feather duvet, flat-screen TV on the wall, and a large framed picture of the mountains hanging crooked above the bed. A red-eyed alarm clock sat on a bedside table, next to two large pill bottles.

I stepped to examine the pill bottles: prescription with a doctor's name and the words
Ambien
and
Librium
in bold print. The names didn't mean anything to me. But the fact that Jen wasn't in the room did. It meant I'd risked my life for nothing. I'd have to get the hell out and regroup and come up with another plan. And I wasn't good at plans.

Two sounds kept me from leaving the room in a fury. Sounds that I wouldn't have heard if I hadn't spent years living in the wild relying on my senses to keep me alive. I heard very faint snoring, and the patter of footsteps outside the trailer.

The snoring came from the small crack between the bed and the wall opposite me. I crawled across the bed and peered down as the patter neared the trailer. Jen had fallen off the bed and was curled into the closest approximation of the
fetal position you can achieve when you're in a crack. She looked thin and older—worn-out but peaceful.

The patter turned into creaking as the person outside the trailer mounted the metal steps.

I stood still, considered dragging Jen out and throwing her over my shoulder. Before I could think of another option, the person opened the trailer door and entered.

“Yo, Burke,” a voice boomed. “We still on for—” A pause. “Burke?”

I put my pack on the bed, kept the MP5 rifle, the pistol, and the stolen black parts of the uniform. I took a breath and stepped out the door.

“Where's Burke? Who are you?”

I didn't answer, just affected a bored attitude and walked over to the camp chair and sat down. I grabbed an extra magazine for the MP out of the box and put it in my pocket. Then I sat pondering and moved the six of spades below the seven of diamonds. “Bumppo,” I said, trying to find a five of hearts to go below the six. “Alvis brought me in late last night, because of the new threat.”

“Oh.” This was the man I'd seen earlier wearing the Tyvek coveralls. He went over and sprawled on the couch. He was one of those redheaded males who'd catch fire in the sunlight. The gene pool hadn't been kind to him in other departments, either: he wore glasses and had a keg belly. “Where they got Burke? We usually play poker.”

I shrugged. “No idea. My orders are to watch the woman.”

Geeky guy figured out he wasn't going to make a new best friend so he rose from the couch. “I'll leave you to it then.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, not looking up from my game of solitaire. “Catch you later.”

He swung open the door and clomped down the steps.

Back in Jen's room, I gently maneuvered my sister out of the crack and onto the bed. She was wearing silk pajamas, dark purple, long-sleeved with pants. Other than the thin line of drool oozing out of her mouth, she looked healthy. No bruises. No cuts or scratches. No missing fingers or casts.

She was gaunt and pale, but no more so than some society woman who'd spent too much time on a veggie diet. Her pulse was good and her breathing regular. Something about the expression on her face—it reminded me of my childhood best friend and confidant, and for a moment I felt that aching loss you feel when you know you can't go back and aren't even sure you want to.

I listened again to the sounds surrounding the trailer. Nothing. “Jen?” I said. I got no reaction, so I said it louder.
“Jen . . .”

She murmured and mumbled, then opened one eye. A half second later the other eye opened and I could see her focusing. She croaked out, “You
came
.”

“Damned right,” I said, wrapping the duvet around her shoulders. Then I hooked my arms beneath hers and leaned her toward the door. She stumbled at first and I pulled her into me, gripping one of her elbows.

I led her out of the trailer, down the steps, and across the compound to the back trash gate. I locked it behind me, and then, half tugging and half lifting Jen beside me, I limped up the hill, sucking air like a sun-stroked impala. When I finally reached Zeke, who helped lift Jen out of my arms, it hit me how god-awful tired I was.

I collapsed on the ground next to my sister.